To Fight if Not to Love
by ArrangedloveMatch
Summary: V-E Day, 1945. In the midst of a celebration party, France and England have a conversation overflowing with subtext that they're not about to fully address. Mention of/appearence by America.


_**To Fight if Not to Love **_

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**VE Day, 1945, London**

"You used to look at me like that."

England blinks. "I beg your pardon?"

France gestures in the vague direction of America, who is currently dancing on top of a table. "Once, I took you to Dover and you looked at me with your heart in your eyes; you have been giving our dear Alfred the same look all evening."

England's eyes grow wide and he turns as stiff as a corpse. France smirks and continues, "In fact, I believe that you have been besotted with the boy since 1899, at least."

England makes a choking sound, and France laughs. "Do relax, _cher_; I have told the boy many things about you, but I will not tell him this."

England, aghast, opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. He manages, "...What things?"

France shrugs. "Why you sent him daffodils for his birthday, among others."

England's gaze drops to his hands. A silence stretches between them, strange and out of place in such a scene of celebration.

"Does he know, then?" England asks, so very quietly.

France says not unkindly, "You know better than I what he knows, Arthur."

England's hands are open, palms up, like the hands of a praying sinner. "If only that were true," he says, almost to himself, leaving France an eavesdropper. "I sometimes feel that I don't know a bloody thing about him."

The hands clench. Unclench. "He is still in the Pacific. But he's here. He spreads himself thinly and I don't know what he wants from it."

France sips his drink and squints up at the ceiling, wondering if England even realizes what he is saying. Then:

"After Yorktown," he begins, unsure of what makes him start, "he cried as much as you did. When I asked him why, he told me that he was crying for joy and for sorrow, for himself, and also for you. I believe that he intends to cry for the entire world if he must." He shrugs. "If that answers your question."

Another silence grows, until England speaks in a most unusual voice. "I though that it would be the last. After 1918 I thought we would never do this again."

"I know."

England sounds frustrated. "After 1453, I thought...no, but I _hoped_ it would be that last."

France remembers his Jeanne, and England's Henry, and how he began to hate his _Angleterre_ so much after that. "Yes." He glances at England and cannot resist a blow. "And after 1780 as well?"

England flinches, and his eyes dart away from America's face. "No." But his voice remains steady. "At least we did not fight each other, this time."

"We do tend to have a weakness there." France says. "Do you think that we ever shall again?"

England shrugs, a little helplessly. "I don't presume to know anything, anymore."

France allows a heavy pause before his next words. "Arthur," he says softly, "how does Coventry feel?"

"How does—" England looks surprised even as his hand flies reflexively to his side. His eyes are quite astonishingly green, and France chuckles because he suddenly looks young, very much like the dirty little caterpillar who used to scowl and sputter when France tried to kiss him, so long ago.

"It…it still throbs sometimes." England sounds a little unsure, but the next moment he recovers himself and says, briskly, "But I assure you that I am quite well."

"As you always are," France chuckles again. "I hoped for less, and yet I expect nothing less, I am afraid."

England frowns at him "I would ask how you are as a matter of propriety, however—"

"I understand." France waves his hand lazily. "You do not care, we despise each other, and I am an ass. I appreciate the thought."

England sighs then, a great heavy sigh, and shakes his head. "You _are_ an ass, and we have never been partial to one another," he says. He shoots France a sharp, hawk-like look. "But regardless, I do care."

France knows that. He knew that when England dragged him off of the beach in Dunkirk; he knew that when he fired on England on occupied soil because he had no choice; he knew that when he woke from a fevered delirium during a campaign in Africa to find England there, holding him as he thrashed, soothing him with both English and French words. He knew that on the day he took back Paris and he sobbed, and England appeared beside him and said nothing at first, only ran his hand through France's hair, and then whispered "Vive la France" so softly that France's heart swelled.

But France is unwilling to let himself truly feel the enormity of it, and he imagines that England feels the same. They can never acknowledge this; reality barely clings as it is.

But he does allow himself a smile, and to reach across to touch England's shoulder, resting for just a moment. "Arthur," he murmurs, "if this is not the end of war, I promise that I will find a way to fight with you off of the battlefield, and stand with you on it."

"Yes." England's hand reaches up to touch his, so swiftly that they both will forget it, deny it, later. But for now: "Yes, I daresay you shall."

France pulls his hand away at once and nods over England's left shoulder. "It seems that you have an engagement."

"What are you—" England turns just as America bounds up to him, smiling like the sun, and leans very close to his face indeed.

"Hey England! Ya havin' a good time?"

England sputters and staggers back so fast that he nearly falls; France smothers his laughter behind his hand. "America, what in the King's name do you think you're—" His eyes suddenly flash behind his glasses. "Alfred Jones, _do I smell alcohol on your breath?_"

America snorts and blows a strand of golden hair out of his blue, blue eyes. "Don't be such a stick in the mud, England, golly." He grabs England by the elbow and half attempts to drag him away. "This is a _party_, you're supposed to have _fun_. France," he turns imploringly, "has he been this droopy all night?"

"I am afraid so," France grins at England's glower. "To his credit I believe he was _born_ a, ah, 'Stick in the mud,' as you say."

"Aw, he's never been fun." America pouts the smallest bit. "C'mon, England, c'mon!" He tugs at England once more. "Celebrate! You should drink or dance or somethin'."

"I will do nothing of the sort."

"Hey, do you not know how to dance? I'll teach'cha, ain't nothin' to it!"

"Don't know—I was dancing long before you could even walk, you daft little arse—"

France takes this moment to tactfully leave the two alone. He retreats a few steps and amuses himself with watching them dance around each other, both literaly and figuratively, although he cannot say who is leading.

Is he jealous? Not precisely, and not yet. Regardless, he rests with the knowledge that England would always be his to fight, if not to love, although he is not certain if he wants either, anymore.

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**I have so many OTPs I don't know what to do with myself orz**

**SO MANY REFERENCES. Like, to history and personal canon, and there's even a little tribute to the dub in there. GOD I LOVE WRITING FANFICTION.**

**oh ps England sent America daffodils because they represent unrequited love :3 d'awwww**


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